The Toff and The Lady

of her eyes, to know the living reality of her—and here she was, dressed in a plain black evening gown, with shoes of black satin trimmed with diamante, without other jewellery or make-up, with her brown hair plaited and coiled about her head and shining with a soft lustre.

“So,” she said, speaking with great deliberation, “you do not know me, and you cannot help me.”

“Only the first is true,” he said.

She looked puzzled. “Why should that be?”

“Nearly a month ago, before you arrived at Barrington House, an unknown person sent me your photograph, and I have been at your command from that moment!”

She smiled. “An Englishman who is gallant!”

“There is more in us than you suspect,” he said. “So you know that you are not English?”

“That is one thing about which there is no doubt,” she said.

“The doctors were quite sure of that, and so they tried to make me remember what I am, and yet they failed. I remember nothing, except appearing in that gay ballroom, with many strange people looking at me. Then the room suddenly began to go round, the lights danced, the people swayed as they came towards me—and then, darkness!” Throughout that speech her voice had been pitched on so low a key that he could hear what she said only with difficulty. After a long while, she went on: “Darkness, and the hospital, and all that happened afterwards. I remember quite well.”

“Everything!” asked Rollison.

“Everything,” she said, “and yet not enough, for your police have asked me whether I saw a stranger in my room, and I remember no stranger; I remember only that I was sick, so very sick, and I did not think that I would live. Yet I am here —as I was there—seeking myself:

“With others also looking for you,” said Rollison. “Someone knows who you are.”

Her eyes lit up. “That is the first time I have been given real hope! Can you be sure?”

“Quite sure,” said Rollison. “They would not be so interested in you unless they knew who you were and what you are doing in England.” He remembered himself and offered her cigarettes, but she refused, and also refused another offer of a drink. So he went on: “What they know, we can learn, and when we’ve learned it then the doctors can help you to remember all that you’ve forgotten.”

“Almost you make it sound simple.”

“Few things are as complicated as they look,” said Rollison. “I wonder if the doctors or the police realize one thing that can be helpful?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you learned English in England or from an English governess with whom you spoke the language from childhood,” said Rollison. “Have they said that?”

“No. You are performing miracles, Mr. Rollison! I am already becoming excited.”

“After dinner you will probably get hilarious,” said Rollison, for he heard Jolly coming into the hall. “Now, you must have some sherry.”

“I do not like it,” she said.

He stared down at her, leaning forward a little, his eyes brighter than ever.

You see! Another thing you remember.”

“But”

“They don’t give you sherry in the nursing home,” said Rollison, “so you must have disliked it before you lost your memory. A cocktail?”

She made a face. “They burn one so!” Her eyes lighted up, not with the effort of remembering but because some things were coming to her mind so naturally. “There are two things I do not like about the Americans—they invented cocktails and they invented high buildings.”

“Which are called”

She stared at him, with great concentration, and then said delightedly:

“Sky-scrapers!”

“Sky-scrapers,” echoed Rollison. He was surprised by his own elation.

Jolly came in and laid the table while they talked gaily and irresponsibly, and for the first time a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks. As they talked, he recalled all that he had heard about her. When she had arrived at Barrington House she had no jewellery, no handbag, no papers, nothing but the clothes in which she now stood: clothes which Grice had told him were of American make and could not be traced in England. According to the police no one could be sure who had made her gown or who had supplied her furs.

Marcus Shayle had wanted to know what she said. He or some unknown person had tried to kill her. Another had sent her the letter which had brought her here

“You have thought of something else,” she said, seeing the gleam in his eyes.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “That letter. Whoever sent it wanted you to come here, and the man or woman who sent me your photograph also wanted me to meet you. So they were probably sent by the same person.”

“It is most likely,” she said.

Jolly had been busy with steaks and frozen peas and grilled tomatoes, and murmured that dinner was served. He hovered about them throughout the meal, while they talked and laughed with animation; this was a miracle; They drank sparingly of champagne, but enough to bring an added sparkle to their eyes, and behaved as if they were old friends who had met after a long separation. No stranger would have believed that they had met for the